A Lack of Color
by rib
Summary: Creek. Craig's a bad boyfriend.


Tweek is standing on the tips of his toes. He's using a plastic stool that doesn't get cold in the bathroom. It is light pink and China-made, with a yellow deer and some flowers printed on the top. It says, "Beautiful smile of the sky!" in bright blue. This image is distorted by the fact that the seat is covered with little holes that will leave diamond-shaped imprints on Tweek's feet. The little stool wobbles beneath the blonde, causing him to sob even harder. His pale face is already soaked with tears, still seeping from his round, green eyes. He clamps his mouth shut with both his hands as he imagines the tears morphing into thin white snakes—cold and wet as they slither around his neck and into his shirt. They turn back into plain old tears as he feels them drip onto his feet, which are beginning to cramp up.

Tweek wipes his nose and rubs the mucus on his shirt. His hands, shaking to the erratic tune of his body, clutch his shirt's collar. He tugs at it, hoping it doesn't tear because the room is cold enough while he is dressed. A button comes undone and the cold air reaches his chest. His nails are too short and as he claws at his neck, his middle finger begins to bleed. He whimpers, scratching harder at the sight of his own blood. This is a bad idea; Tweek thinks in panic, Craig would get so angry at him. Craig would probably go out and he wouldn't come back for a long time. Tweek would be left in the apartment by himself, and he would have to answer the phone if it rang. What if a burglar comes while he is sleeping alone? What if it's a murderer and they try to kill him? He can feel his heartbeat on his fingertips. What if he doesn't calm down, and his heart beats too fast and it pops from the pressure? He tears his fingers from his body and replaces them on his mouth once again. No amount of bloody gashes is going to make him relax.

Tweek spots the large conch shell in the corner of the shower. Craig brought it back for him from a beach trip with his family. He tries to hear the sea, but it reminds him only of drowning and possibly being eaten by all sorts of aquatic life.

He hiccups into his palms, trying to mute his sobs within the loop of rope that is pressing against the front of his neck.

"Waking up" has become "noticing that the sun has risen outside" for Craig. He pulls the blanket over his bare back once again and rubs his aching eyes for what seems to be the millionth time. A question that comes to Craig's mind as dawn breaks over his stupid little town is, "has Tweek had breakfast?" He remembers to ask this because his boyfriend is notoriously thin and it only contributes to his poor health. Following this question are more worries about Tweek. Craig stops himself at, "another nervous breakdown," and is half-tempted to punch himself in the face because at this hour, Tweek is definitely still asleep. His mother finally bought him medication. Craig figures that he hasn't had breakfast yet and he isn't even wearing his hat and that is the reason he is thinking dumb shit.

He glances at the phone under his pillow. Without even seeing the red, blinking icon, he knows there is a message there from Tweek that he hasn't read yet. He leaves it as he heads for the bathroom. He calms down while brushing his teeth, remembering that the last time he'd seen Tweek, the blonde was perfectly fine. Happy even. Happy would have been nice, because Tweek had been so down lately. He was so insecure and his attacks were beginning to get worse. Craig's mood darkens. He hasn't been around Tweek lately, though. He is going to have to see him soon. He spits out minty foam and rinses his mouth, imagining the kind, sweet things he can say to Tweek to make him calm. No one does it better than I can, Craig thinks. He doesn't need to smile or even look at Tweek. He knows how Tweek loves the crap out of him.

Well, Craig loves Tweek too. At least, he likes him more than anything else in his li—he's not sure why he has says it like that. It would have been enough to say, Craig loves Tweek. I love Tweek. He knows he does. He wants to give Tweek everything and he wants Tweek to be happy. But he never puts it like that. He never says, "I can't live without you," the way Tweek does. He doesn't hold on to Tweek like he's about to lose him to someone at any moment. He only likes to practice, in his mind. Some of these rehearsals spill out sometimes. Craig ends up cradling Tweek, telling him nice things. He can still feel the blonde clinging onto him for a sense of warmth (for both of them.) He thinks that he can keep Tweek from ever being cold. He's done it before. He makes a resolve. The next time he sees Tweek, he is definitely going to greet him first. He'll be the one to take Tweek's hand and he'll smile at the blonde, because Tweek finds it reassuring.

Craig can hear his phone ringing from down the hallway. He nods absently to the tune. He knows the phone cuts off the song before the lyrics start. He's heard it a hundred times. It only plays when Tweek is calling. Craig blinks into the sink. He wants to run into his room, pick up the phone. His head is pounding, wanting to hear Tweek's voice. He wants to hear him stutter. He wants to hear Tweek breathe. He can hear himself already, asking—begging to see Tweek.

But he won't pick it up. No matter how much he wishes for it—no matter how crazy he's become that he has to _hallucinate _it, Tweek isn't calling.

Craig thinks, there's no way he can be calling—the same way there was no way Tweek had kicked away the stool and heard the crack that cut off his own gasps. There was no way he could have been hanging, neck broken, blotched purple in face, from the rope attached to the rafters of his bathroom's ceiling, either.

He waits for the phone to cut off the song, just as it always has. He waits for himself to start thinking that Tweek is alive again. Craig returns to what he likes to call the "real life," waiting for Tweek to call again.


End file.
